The Tormented Illusion
by SeverEstHolmes
Summary: Mycroft Holmes has just as many secrets as his younger brother does; and the very first secret was all to do with the most constant companion in his life - food. Currently a oneshot, ED triggers, rated T.


**A/N: I always think that Mycroft gets a hard time, and that everyone gives allowances for Sherlock's drug taking/other reckless habits, I think Mycroft is ****_just _****as damaged, if not more so, than Sherlock. So this is about Mycroft as a teenager and his (maybe not so strange) relationship with food. This contains references to Eating Disorders which might be triggering, so please keep yourself safe.**

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_Mmrrlgff._

_'Oh please shut up!'_ All the muscles in Mycroft's body tensed as his stomach growled for the sixth and loudest time. _'Oh god, please, stop it.' _He internally wished, he was almost positive that his dorm mate must have heard his stomach rumbling repeatedly since they went to bed. _'Why did I choose to do this? It was such a bad idea… oh yeah, I need to do this!' _Mycroft reminded himself firmly, just as a small whine issued itself feebly from his stomach again. _'I need to lose weight…'_

"How's the diet going Mycroft?" Sherlock jibed, a grin painted across his face as he sat opposite Mycroft, who had folded his arms tightly across his chest.

"Fine." Mycroft glared at his twelve year old brother and glued his jaw together in annoyance. Mycroft was five weeks into his first semester at university and he had decided to visit home for the weekend – completely forgetting that the second week in October was a mid-term break for the schools – which meant that Sherlock was also at home.

Mycroft had been on a self-imposed diet from the time he had been fourteen; and since then his weight had fluctuated up and down almost as regularly as the sun rose and set each day. Mummy had been very helpful at first when Mycroft announced that he wanted to lose weight, but then as he bounced up and down on the scales she had tired with the project; believing Mycroft wasn't committed enough to his goal. What she was completely oblivious to was the cycle of hell that Mycroft's life was morphing into…

The jibes had been the instigator – Mycroft had never been an overly athletic child; he had settled on educating his mind rather than training his body. The result of this mental workout was that his academia was years ahead of his age, but he was definitely carrying around a bit of extra weight… Puppy fat people described it as, hanging around unwanted. He wasn't the quickest to hit puberty out of the boys at school, and some of them picked up on this, using it as a means to tease Mycroft – so subsequently it became a fixation of Mycroft's.

Despite knowing the sensible information about eating more healthily and moving a bit more in order to lose weight, thoughts began to circulate inside his head. Thoughts that told him that his diet was never going to work, that there was only one way to do what he was trying to achieve. The thoughts had whispered at first: _'There is a way to do this, but you need to let me take control – I can help you'_; _'I will give you what you want, I will make everything better'_; _'I will make you thin'_.

At first Mycroft ignored these thoughts, but when he had been on his "healthy" diet for nearly three months and lost a pitiful total of 4lbs he began to get annoyed. He was primarily annoyed with himself – convinced that it must be something wrong with him that was causing _nothing _to happen – and the thoughts became stronger. So finally he succumbed to their influence, and no food passed his lips. The first few days were the toughest – his stomach rumbled constantly, he had an empty ache in his abdomen; but the thoughts reminded him that those feelings meant that it was working. The proof came when he stepped on the scales on the Saturday morning – and could hardly trust his own eyes. 4.8lbs down, in one week – he had lost more in one week than he had done in three months on the last diet…

The decision was solidified in his head: this method worked, this would make everything better. The first month the system worked wonders – he lost another 12lbs, but it had not gone unnoticed. His dorm mate was the first person that Mycroft became aware of suspecting something, and then a few of his teachers – especially the form master took a peculiarly sharp interest in him. All of which made him more conscious of everything, and made him redouble his efforts to put across no outward signs of anything being wrong. He had been working so hard, he didn't want to be found out – not when he was doing so well… His dislike for people and company increased over the next couple of months, he was aware and suspicious of everyone – no matter their status or closeness to him. He became more insular, only wishing to spend his time on school work and trying to lose weight, nothing else mattered. If he could be thin then a whole realm of new possibilities would open for him.

But this new diet had only worked for about three months, then his weight began to plateau and nothing he tried – not exercising more, or refusing point blank to eat anything at all – budged more than a couple of grams from his weight. Yet again he was plunged into doubt, and was consumed by feelings at having failed at the most simplest of tasks… He had tried so hard, and done so well up until now, but the hunger and emptiness that he had become accustomed to feeling so constantly threatened to take over. All Mycroft could think about was food: about his favourite food and about the food he wasn't allowed to eat. Thinking about how foods looked and imagining the taste and texture of them in his mouth became a guilty pleasure to Mycroft; he felt like he was cheating the diet if he could pretend to eat a lemon meringue pie inside his mind. It never came close enough to the real thing though…

He would never forget the first night when things took a radical change that would impact him for the rest of his life. It was a Thursday evening and the debating society he usually went to had been cancelled due to illness, so he had returned to his dorm to be reminded that his dorm mate was at fencing club and would be for several more hours. Mycroft had lain down on his bed and tried to think of something he could do to take his mind off his growling stomach. At last he had been overwhelmed by the desire for food, and he didn't even recall leaving the school until he was in the little corner shop located two minutes from the entrance of the school. He had never bought so much junk in his life – chocolate, crisps and cakes; all of the foods that were completely forbidden to him. He had started eating even before he had reached the school again: savouring the taste of the chocolate as it passed his lips. But by the time he was back in his room, sat on top of his bed, the flavour or texture of anything didn't matter – he was just shoving it into his mouth as fast as he could. He was _starving, _literally starving – his body crying out for any kind of nutrient; and now he was putting it in faster than it could cope with… He ate until he could almost feel the food in his oesophagus, he was so full… And grotesque.

He had let himself down… He had given into that stupid urge; the same urge that had caused him to be fat in the first place, which had given those boys licence to pick on him in the first place. He had stumbled, in a state of mental unconsciousness, into the bathroom and vomited violently. He hadn't wanted to throw up – it had just happened outwith his control, but as he emerged shakily from the bathroom he felt better. Not just better in a physical sense from not feeling so full, but a weight felt as though the inevitability of gaining weight from this episode had been removed… It didn't then impress upon him that he had just binged and purged for the first time; and that it was going to become a common event. If he ate then made himself throw up then he still got to enjoy the taste of food, but then didn't have to worry so much about gaining weight as a result. It was the _perfect _solution.

It _was_ the perfect solution – until it began to take hold; a repulsive cycle of binging and purging, which had wormed its way into Mycroft's psyche and now wouldn't let him go.

A year and a half later Mycroft felt that he had gained a bit more control over his "diet", its occurrence and strength would ebb and flow like the tide… Sometimes he was capable of eating normally without concern, but other times he would resort to purging everything he ate – whether it had been a meal or binge. He was skilled at what he was doing; he knew the perfect ways to make himself sick, and how to keep others from finding out… This version of his diet maybe hadn't allowed him to loose masses of weight, but he had been able to regulate it in his own way.

It was in this manner that he had progressed all through high school, right up until now – five weeks into his first semester – but he no longer had the same opinion and view of this "diet" as he had done when he was fourteen. He knew now that he was stuck… Trapped by the cycle of bulimia. And at nineteen, the back of his teeth were decaying because of the years of acid hitting against them, his hair had thinned and begun to fall out; and he knew the only way to get out of this cycle was to ask for help… But in the years striving for the perfect weight, the perfect size, the perfect _life _– he had lost all of who he really was.

Mycroft looked across at his younger smirking brother, unstuck his jaw, then sighed heavily.

"Actually…" He started weakly, sucking in a breath. "It's _not _fine…"

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**A/N: Currently this is standing alone as a one shot in my mind, but I am undecided as to whether I should maybe try to continue it further- I would love for anyone to say whether they'd want to read more, or whether I should quit while I'm ahead! **


End file.
